


Who You Gonna Call?

by starbuckmeggie



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Halloween, Post Series, Santos Administration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 10:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21408529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbuckmeggie/pseuds/starbuckmeggie
Summary: Josh and Donna's first Halloween with their daughter.
Relationships: Josh Lyman/Donna Moss
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	Who You Gonna Call?

It’s amazing how much can change in such a short amount of time.

I know that’s an old cliché, but that doesn’t make it less true.

Two years ago at Halloween, Donna and I went some fancy, gothic ball fundraiser thing that she helped spearhead with the First Lady. It was cool and all, and pretty unusual since most of the gala things take place in December or early spring, and very rarely around Halloween, so it made for a nice change of pace. Plus, I got to see my new wife really shine as she managed to organize something so successful, which is always nice, and she wore this really unbelievable black ball gown that sort of reminded me of her wedding dress, so she completely drove me to distraction. The distraction was considered acceptable since most people still thought of us as newlyweds and I guess you’re only allowed to be completely captivated by your wife if you’ve been married for less than a year.

I have not found this to be the case, but I digress.

Still, it was fun to get dressed up in things that were sort of like costumes and not exactly the run-of-the-mill black tie stuff. It was a nice distraction for everyone, especially since we knew the reelection campaign would be kicking into high gear before we knew it. I got yet another reason to be proud of and impressed by Donna, plus the chance to spend an evening holding her in my arms, which we really hadn’t been able to do since our wedding the previous winter. It also gave me a new appreciation for Halloween, a holiday I couldn’t have cared less about for close to forty years.

Last year, Donna was about six and a half months pregnant at Halloween and decided to stick to hanging out at the White House for the usual holiday celebrations. With the reelection campaign being so close to the end at that point, there was no way to get anything organized similar to the year before. We were all pretty wiped at that point and it felt like a gamble to even make the trip back to DC so close to Election Day—not that Donna was traveling with us at that point. She wasn’t forbidden to travel on planes yet, but we both decided we’d feel better if she was helping man things on the home front and _not_ playing hopscotch with time zones. The worst part was that she was stuck in DC most of the time and I didn’t get to be around her constantly, hovering like a gnat. It was probably a relief for her seeing as how I’d been watching her like a hawk since we first found out about the baby. It certainly made for a distracted campaign manager. I was certainly more inclined to make trips home this time around, and we did get back for the Halloween thing at the White House, one of the President Santos’ favorite duties. He and Helen liked dressing up and having the kids come through to trick or treat and it made for a nice break before the last few days.

My wife, despite the fact that her body was suddenly full of aches and pains and swollen ankles and a stomach that seemed to grow by the day, had costumes ready for us, too. All I wanted was to spend a quiet evening at home but Donna insisted that being seen with the First Family for Halloween would look good for Election Day. I guess I figured I didn’t have room to complain if she was willing to be on her feet for that long. So, I just smile gamely, despite being dead on my feet, and kept my comments to myself when she pulled on a shirt she’d decorated herself to make her stomach look like a giant gumball machine. She stuck a giant cardboard quarter on my chest. Honestly, it was the closest I’d come to dressing up since I was little. Even our previous years in the White House, I avoided it like the plague, trying to focus on work while sneaking pieces of candy that were readily available. With the Santos’s, Donna and I were usually with them at functions, though never in costume. At most, Donna wore a witch’s hat one time. But despite my reluctance to be at work on my brief trip home from the campaign trail, once Donna pointed out it could be our last chance to be part of White House festivities, I played along. I felt good about the potential outcome, but not so good that I figured it was worth risking the wrath of omnipresent beings.

It was good, though, even though spending the night hibernating was still very appealing. We did get lots of good press, but I had the added bonus of fully realizing—perhaps for the first time—that in just a very short time, I’d be responsible for one of the little people roaming around. It freaked me out a little, but it mostly gave me a whole new perspective on the holiday. It was wild to think that within two years of that moment, my own child would be able to walk around at one of these things. It helped me see it through the eyes of a kid and how much joy it seems to bring them, and I realized I couldn’t wait to do this with my own. It also helped me realize that we didn’t have much longer to do things that were just the two of us and I should get them all in while I could.

A few days later, I spent the bulk of Election Day watching Donna’s stomach move and reminding myself who I was doing all this for. We reminisced about how just four years before, we weren’t even technically a couple and that we’d managed to, in a relatively short span of time, find our way to each other, get married, and make a whole new person. We showed up at work for a little while in the evening when the results starting coming in but were pretty quickly shooed away , being reminded that there was nothing left to do to help the results and we should be at home, letting Donna rest. As if she wasn’t the one who suggested going in.

We won that night, and I was thrilled, but it didn’t feel like much when I compared it to my life outside of work. Maybe that’s not fair or accurate—it just didn’t feel as huge as other wins because, well, real life was finally better than any professional victory.

Of course, our kid made her appearance less than a week before the inauguration; we’d known we’d be cutting it close, and Donna had even picked out a gown that she absolutely hated because, apparently, they don’t make nice gowns for pregnant women. She figured she’d have to make an appearance at a least a few of the balls, though, and since the first baby is usually early or late, we had to play it by ear. I think she was relieved for more than one reason when Becca showed up in time to keep her at home for the evening. She forced me to put on a tux that night, though, and told me that as Chief of Staff, I_ had_ to be there. Going out to a party was the last thing I wanted to do. Our daughter wasn’t even a week old and other than a couple of quick trips to the store, I hadn’t been away from my little family. She insisted she’d be fine with Becca on her own for a while, though she wouldn’t exactly be alone since our parents had arrived a few hours after the baby was born and stuck around for a couple of weeks.

Still, the President appreciated my efforts and sent me home after ball number two. Fortunately, Becca hadn’t grown any in the short time I’d been gone, but I’d missed her and Donna horribly all the same.

If I hadn’t known before then that I’d fall all over myself, give everything up, for my kid, it was glaringly obvious after that.

So, my priorities shifted after the baby was born. I’d had no idea that someone that tiny and who had no ability to really move on their own could fascinate me in such a way, but all I wanted to do was stare at her. In the nearly ten months she’s been around, I haven’t been able to stop staring at her. When I discovered I could make her smile and laugh, I decided there was no price too high to get that reaction from her again. Personal embarrassment was no longer a factor. I was Becca’s dad and that felt far more important than any other gig I’d ever had.

I glance over at my wife, who is smiling at a group of well-wishers as she holds our daughter facing out—though still close to her chest—so she can see the world. Becca smiles at them, too, her hand occasionally stretching out to try to grab something she’s not supposed to grab. She looks so much like her mother, which I suppose is only fair because Donna did the hard part. Donna’s done all the hard parts, and I feel like I’m just skating by. I get to be the dad and it really feels like expectations are lowered for me. Even if the world at large doesn’t acknowledge it, we’re a fairly equal partnership. It didn’t entirely start out that way, unfortunately.

I love my daughter more than pretty much anything, but she scares the hell out of me. It was one thing to think about her in the abstract while Donna was pregnant, it something else entirely once I met her. She was so small then and I was positive I’d break her. I’m too clumsy to be trusted with something so delicate, but Donna insisted I’d be fine. I guess I was, for the first few days. As a newborn, Becca was very enthusiastic about sleeping—something about being born and how it’s actually really traumatic. I guess it is from that perspective, but it seemed like it was more traumatic for Donna, who had to get an entire person out of her body. I could handle a sleeping baby. She’d wake up from time to time, fuss a little, we’d feed her or change her and she’d go back to sleep. No sweat. At one point, though, not too long after the inauguration, she started crying—really and truly wailing—and I didn’t know how to get her to stop. To this day, I’d swear that I’m the one that made her cry even though Donna kept telling me that babies cry without provocation from the rest of us and I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Our parents had just left, Donna was trying to sleep, and my only job was to keep my daughter happy for a couple of hours, and I failed miserably. Naturally, the more upset she got, the more upset I got, but she was really probably feeding off my anxiety over all of it. She calmed down within minutes of Donna taking over the situation, and I became certain I wasn’t qualified to be a parent. Every time I tried holding Becca after that, she’d start to wail. Again, she was probably picking up on my fear and tension and responding to it, but it did nothing for my confidence.

I’m ashamed to say that I tried to avoid being at home when Becca was awake, mostly because I was afraid I’d make it worse. Listening to my daughter cry is the most heart wrenching sound I’ve ever heard, worse than listening to Donna as she gave birth and _that_ almost killed me. It didn’t always work out—as much as I hated making her cry, I still loved being around my family—but I was little to no help. I’d try to hold my daughter when she was upset but I could do nothing to calm her. She’d wail and sob and tear my heart to shreds.

Suffice it to say, the first month or so of fatherhood sucked.

When Becca was nearly two months old, Donna brought her to the White House, mostly because no one would stop harassing us until they got to meet her. We’d certainly been out in public with the baby before that point, but bringing her to work seemed like a daunting task, one I wasn’t willing to tackle on my own and that Donna certainly didn’t feel up to for some time. Still, with a child as spectacular as ours, even if I was a complete failure as a parent, we definitely wanted to be able to show her off, so they showed up after I’d been at work for a few hours and everything came to a standstill as everyone we knew fawned over our daughter, even if they’d already met her. At one point, Donna said she had some things to check on in her office and left me with the baby—truthfully, I think she just needed a break. Not that I can blame her. She needed a few moments and that was okay. Becca was even napping at the time so all I had to do was prop her carrier up on my desk while I worked.

That lasted all of ten minutes before she woke up, saw who was taking care of her, and started crying. I tried all the usual things—changed the diaper, offered her a bottle—but she was just inconsolable. So I did the only thing I had left. I talked politics. I held her to my chest and started talking about what I was doing that day, what I was trying to do that year, how it was going to help her, and even went into how bills were made and the duties of each branch of the government. I walked her around my office and showed her all the pictures of her and her mom that I had in my office and told her about all the things I couldn’t wait to teach her, and it took me a while to realize she’d stopped crying. In fact, not only had she stopped crying but she was staring at me in fascination. That was the moment I realized it was going to be okay. I knew that I’d continue to screw up—that was a given—but as long as it was nothing colossal, it wasn’t going to matter as long as I loved my kid.

And there’s no doubt that I love my daughter so much I can’t see straight. That’s the only explanation I have for actually wearing a costume tonight. It was Donna’s brainchild but she told me it would be one of those great memories for us—not to mention that it wouldn’t be too many years before Becca wouldn’t have interest in things like this so we should take advantage while we could. I didn’t entirely buy it but I wasn’t going to refuse. Donna actually had several different costume schemes for us, and I’m infinitely grateful it was too cold for us to dress up as the Flintstones. Instead, we’re dressed up as Ghostbusters, our child relegated to the role of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I thought Donna was taking an awfully big gamble putting Becca in something that was so…white. At least knowing how her tendency to explode at a moment’s notice, that is. So far, it’s been fine. Donna actually floated the idea of dressing Becca up as Tinkerbell, with the caveat that I’d be Peter Pan to Donna’s Wendy. That was a hard pass from me. If I’m going to wear tights in public, my daughter is going to have to ask me personally.

Unfortunately, I can see that getup in my not too distant future.

I grin as I watch Donna bounce Becca gently—our kid makes a cute marshmallow. Becca grins at everyone, drool glistening on her chin, her puffy little costume keeping her nice and toasty. Donna deftly manages to keep the baby away from most of the grabby hands. I’d never noticed before having one of my own that people—all of the people—seem to want to just grab any baby they see. Becca’s fairly personable and can deal with a fair amount of being passed around, but her parents aren’t always thrilled with it. It’s usually after some unknown quantity comes into contact with her that she winds up with some bug that makes her absolutely miserable. In a situation like this, where there’s nothing but a bunch of strangers with questionable levels of hygiene, keeping a cute baby away from them is a challenge, but one that Donna seems to be up to. She’s always been the more diplomatic of the two of us.

I head back toward them, shoving my phone into one of the many pockets of my jumpsuit, and all I can do is watch it happen. A small group wanders up to Donna and Becca, clearly not content to have just met the First Family of the United States, and starts chatting. Two of the kids don’t seem terribly interested in the conversation and start screwing around, tussling with each other. Before the parents can tell them to settle down and control the situation, one of the kids winds up popping the other kid’s balloon…right in Becca’s face. I can see her entire body jerk, her eyes wide with shock for a whole second before her lower lip juts out. Her face crumples and she starts to cry. Her sobs are loud enough to pierce the noise of the crowd, everyone in the vicinity stopping to stare in sympathy at the wailing baby. Donna turns her around, cradling her to her chest, swaying gently.

My first instinct is sic my detail on them and forcibly remove the entire group from the premises. I reign that in and focus on my family, my pace quickening until I can reach them. I don’t know what I could possibly do to ease my daughter’s distress, but I want to be there to help if I can.

Donna gives me a half-smile as I reach them, trying her best to console our child who doesn’t seem at all like she’s running out of steam. “She’s tired,” Donna tells me. “It’s been a busy day.”

I nod, putting a hand on each of their backs. I lean in and kiss Becca’s forehead, which does nothing to soothe her. “Want me to…”

Donna nods, kissing our daughter a few times before passing her off to me. I cuddle her into my chest and even though I can feel her burrow herself into me, her cries don’t seem to be abating. Donna’s face twists in agony and I understand it well—there’s absolutely nothing like this feeling. I rub her back and jostle her carefully, pacing around slowly. “It’s okay, Beck. Daddy’s here. Those were probably republicans anyway so they’re not worth your tears. Shhh. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Becca doesn’t seem to agree with that assessment, but at least her crying doesn’t get louder.

I glance up at Donna and see that Helen Santos has made her way over to us, concern etched on her face. The President keeps glancing over at us, though he tries to remain diplomatic and continues talking to guests. Considering they’ve known Becca since before she was born, they are most definitely her family and are more than entitled to be concerned about her well being. Still, not many babies have the First Family of the United States wrapped around her delicate little fingers and as soon as my daughter has calmed down, I’ll be endlessly amused about the Santos’ dropping everything because Becca was crying.

“We should probably get her home soon,” I hear Donna say, though when I glance up I see she’s talking to Helen.

“Well, if my kids are ready to crash, I can’t even imagine how Becca is still functioning right now.”

“She gets it from Josh—that ability to function on three hours of sleep is an inherited Lyman trait.”

I roll my eyes even though it’s probably true, but at least Becca’s wails have started to ease off. She’s still unhappy but at least it doesn’t sound like someone’s ripping out her fingernails. She rubs her face against the front of my costume and I take the hint. “Hey, Donna—you want to feed her before we leave?”

She appears at my side, stroking the backs of her fingers over the baby’s soft cheek. “If she’s still awake by the time we get inside I will, but I think she’s about to pass out.” That’s not a skill I’ve ever developed. Donna has an uncanny ability to be able to tell when Becca will be asleep, even if she seems wide awake. Like right now, her big, tear-filled blue eyes are wide and alert but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she was asleep before we ever hit the lobby of the White House. Donna can’t predict it within hours or something, but she can usually look at Becca and know if she’s about to fall asleep.

We say a couple of quick goodbyes before heading toward the building, and the relative quiet seems to soothe our daughter, making her eyes droop. I feel Donna’s hand on my lower back as we walk, though I know her attention is focused on the baby. “I think she just needed her daddy,” she says softly.

I swear my heart swells ten times its original size; sometimes, I’m all that Becca needs, and that’s a better feeling than anything else in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a wild hair to write a Halloween story, but I didn’t actually start it until a week or so ago. In fairness, and for reasons I won’t go into, Halloween and the weeks preceding it, were fairly awful and writing hasn’t been at the top of my list. Also, I know this is pointless but I hope you enjoy.


End file.
